


Martyr

by revasnarenan



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-19
Updated: 2015-07-19
Packaged: 2018-04-10 04:01:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4376486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/revasnarenan/pseuds/revasnarenan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fen’harel has been planning for centuries, earning the trust of his brethren and storing his power. When his plans finally come to a climax he is left to deal with the unexpected consequences.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Martyr

Fen’harel was always aware of the potential tingling on his fingertips, the electricity coursing through his veins. He could burn kingdoms to the ground if he so wished. In his youth he found the potential intoxicating, anything he desired he took, either by force or by deception. His words were a form of magic he had mastered, he made lovers from enemies with calculated whispers and permeated crowds with emotions that would suit his amusement.

Because for the first part of his life that was all he cared for, his own pleasure. But as centuries passed his youthful indulgences gave way to issues he could no longer pretend were mere flaws. The rest of the pantheon were drunk on power as he once was, except they didn’t snap out of it. Fen’harel took a look down from his throne and saw the People shouting for rebellion. They could no longer stand the shackles of slavery, they called to him for freedom. And he would answer. The only one who shared his views was Mythal, she pledged to deliver on their cries for justice, and when she tried to show her children the wrongs they have wrought… they murdered her.

If they could slay the great goddess Mythal, Fen’harel knew he stood no chance. So he waited. He pushed the flow of events to his favor, earning the trust of the Creators and the Forgotten Ones amid their shared bloodlust.

And when all was said and done, when he found himself victorious, he could scarcely raise a limb. The lack of power was a sensation foreign to the trickster god. The spell had cost him everything, and he could feel himself… slipping. He had never imagined he might die such a death. Battle seemed more fitting. Nevertheless, the deed was done.

A ragged cough brought red to his lips, he wiped the blood with the back of his hand, satisfied he could manage that much. In his dying moments he let himself feel pride for what he has accomplished and a slight smile came to his lips. The self-proclaimed gods and goddesses of Elvhenan were sealed away and the People had their freedom. He could… rest.

“You hunt alone now, Dread Wolf,” the voice was familiar, but one he had not heard in centuries, and had not expected to hear ever again. “You’ve achieved your greatest deception.”

“Mythal?” he rose, expecting resistance from his damaged body, only to find himself feeling well. The scenery had changed; he was no longer on the cool floor of his temple, the unique environment of the Fade now surrounded him. Green and blue grasses swayed in the slight breeze coming from above, where he saw the shimmering sky through an opening in the canyon. The stone walls were decorated with carvings he recognized as elven, but could not read. An ancient dialect, he presumed.

“Your greatest folly was… your impatience,” she came into view, shaking her head in amused disappointment. Mythal looked exactly as he had last seen her. Her white hair reached past her waist, where it came together in a loose knot decorated with swirling tendrils of blue. “But I applaud your sacrifice, although reckless, it gives rise to a new era.”

He faced her, weary of this figure he presumed long dead, “What do you mean impatience? I waited centuries, placing everyone where I needed them, planting ideas that would grow into action, orchestrating a rebellion that would free the People who cried for my help. I was not impatient, I waited exactly the amount of time required.”

The look on her face was surprise mixed with disbelief, “You never took into consideration your own personal gain, did you, Fen’harel? You truly are a martyr. With more time, you could’ve increased your own power, sealed away the gods, then claimed their thrones for yourself. Been the benevolent ruler the People need. But instead you gave up everything.”

“What’s done is done, Mythal.” There could be no mistaking it, this was her. “Do not criticize my plans while your own failed.”

A short laugh escaped her lips, “Very well, I’ll keep my tongue, oh Great Wolf.”

Fen’harel didn’t appreciate the sarcasm, but there was no point making an enemy of a friend when he had so few. He inspected the canyon surrounding them, looking for a way to get answers to his piling questions, “You escaped Elgar’nan’s wrath in the Fade, I see.”

Mythal touched the wall of the canyon, her fingers tracing the ancient carvings, “Yes. I knew there was a certain risk to challenging the pantheon’s way of life, so I stored a shard of my soul here… just in case. Over time it grew, but even now I am only capable of this form. I cannot leave the Fade, only peer into the mortal world. I am powerless.”

“And how am I here?” he stepped forward, intent on learning as much as he could of his predicament. Maybe not all was lost. “I did not split my soul. Or take any other precautions.” Now that he considered it, his actions were reckless in respect to his own well being. Death didn’t seem like a threat until it loomed over him, ready to fall.

“You have me to thank for your continued survival,” she pronounced, “I used what little power I had to spare on pulling you into slumber. Your soul will recover, but it won’t be for a long time. Good riddance on performing the spell in your temple, at least your body will be safe. The wards should keep you hidden until you’re ready to wake.”

He assumed that he had died, his soul simply lingered in the Fade as some do, but hearing otherwise brought him relief. “You have my gratitude, friend.”

“A gracious response. I would advise keeping an eye to the happenings of the mortal world, their lives continue even as we slumber,” she turned to leave now, but added over her shoulder, “May your path be a safe one.”

He gave her a simple nod, and with that she was gone, and he was left to walk the Fade alone. But that was a fate he would not despair, there were worse things. The Creators were bound to be raging against their confinement, pledging revenge, planning escape. But so long as he breathed, Fen’harel would never see his People submit again.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> It was my intention that they are speaking elven the entire time, but I chose not to translate everything to make it easier to read. Thank you for reading!


End file.
